O for Octave
by SimplyElymas
Summary: Christine Hammond lives in totalitarian London. When she is attacked by violent Fingermen, and rescued by a masked terrorist called Octave, resembling her father's tale of the Angel of Music, her life spins out of control. Xover with V for Vendetta.
1. Prologue The Masked Man

A crossover with V for Vendetta. Because, frankly, it was becoming so obvious that someone had to do it. Muchas gracias to PPN, whose bizarre crossovers thread finally forced me to write the bloody thing. The title is still pending, so if you have any suggestions, I would appreciate it more than you can possibly concieve of with your puny brain.

Leroux based insofar as PotO goes, with some Kay thrown in to beef up the Persian's characterization. Graphic novel verse as far as VFV goes, but will be totally understandable if you've only seen the movie. Or, indeed, if you've never heard of VFV at all.

Oh yes. I don't own either of these things, contrary to both justice and popular opinion.

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Prolouge

The Man in the Mask

The man in the mask was waiting. It was dark, and it was cold, and the fog of London seemed to permeate everywhere, like a thick gas. Men in the street shivered, reminded of half recalled news reports of gas ovens. But that was when there were news reports, other than the comforting, old leather Voice of Fate. But the fog did not reach behind the mask. The mask was smiling. The man in the mask was waiting.

The mask was the mask of a harlequin, smiling and frozen forever in its same position. It gave the impression of a terrifying amiability, the amiability of one who has been tortured too many times to let it stir him. That same amiability extended to other parts, more chilling parts. How little an effort it would take to stifle a life. What an amiable thought. What amiability. But you could not be sure. The mask covered everything. The man in the mask was waiting.

What he was waiting for no one could have said. The people on the street did not see him, did not see the paperback copy of Macbeth that he pulled from beneath his cloak. It was old, battered. It had been read many times.

"Good evening, London. It's nine o'clock and this is the Voice of Fate broadcasting on 275 and 285 on the medium wave. It is the fifth of the eleventh, nineteen-ninety-seven."

The man in the mask did not wait much longer, to hear the rest of the broadcast. He bent over his copy of Macbeth, opened it to a dog eared page. "Shakespeare," the man in the mask said softly. Hearing his own voice made him laugh, because he knew millions of people were hearing, right now, the Voice of Fate and believing it a hypnotic voice, a beautiful voice. What did they know? The Voice of Fate - of Lewis Prothero - was as insignificant as this government had now rendered the poetry that the man in the mask held in his hand.

The man in the mask murmured a few lines, reading words he knew by heart from the book. "Stones have been known to move, and trees to speak. . ." He trailed off, and stared for a moment at the rain. He smiled. Or perhaps it was just the mask.

"Remember, remember, the fifth of November. . ." said the man in the mask, and walked away on the streets of London, boots clicking smartly at the heel.


	2. Two A Rebel's Whore

It's tiiiime for a update on The Vicious Cabaret / O for Opera. Suggestions on real title appreciated.

I suppose it ought to be stated that this is, as far as V for Vendetta goes, in graphic novel verse. Thanks to Polly Moopers for saving my graphic novel-less little butt.

Chapter Two

A Rebel's Whore

Christine Hammond felt her back press painfully into the stone wall. It pricked through her thin dress, scraped her bare shoulders. The man was red faced from the cold, grunting like an animal. He moved his sour mouth to her shoulder, and she felt his stubble raise white scratch marks on her skin. Christine Hammond couldn't breathe. She felt pressed onto the wall by a human steam roller, fleshy and strong and horrid and wrong.

An idle watcher would have cringed, pulled his coat up, and walked on. She was only another one, a prostitute, impure and faithless, most likely deserving of what she got. The watcher would convice themselves nothing could be done, that this was life, and then go home to a wife and children so preoccupied with fear of being overheard that they would not whisper words of love into his tired, workaday ears. An idle watcher would certainly not have interfered. The Fingermen from the Hand. . .what were you supposed to do? They worshiped the law, and the law was theirs, a stolen idol, a golden calf.

But one single watcher believed that, as a man in a long forgotten musical had once said, the idle brain was the Devil's playground. And he did play there, too, devil that he was, on the idle minds of the people. He loved his playground, although it did not love him. He swung on the swings. He pushed aside children to get in line for the slide, but generally helped them up afterwards. He tumbled happily on the seesaw. And now the playground bullies were acting up again, trying to steal a poor little girl's lunch money. Something had to be done, he thought with a grim smile behind his mask. Something will be done, because it must.

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One thing about that idle watcher that we mentioned earlier - he might, indeed, have wondered how the respectable, pretty Miss Christine Hammond had gotten herself into this less than enviable situation. And the answer he would have recieved would have been simple. That evening, as the Voice of Fate broadcast the thoughts of the people straight into their idle heads, Christine Hammond put on eyeliner, far more than usual, as she held a general dislike of make up, bright fire truck red lipstick, and a miniscule green dress that had no straps or sleeves. You could see clean through her legs when she stood by a light. And so, thinking of Salome and famous courtesans, wondering how her luck might be that night, wondering what had driven her to this, she stepped out her door, bearing the only wares she had for all to see. Why did she do this? Because she must.

Christine Hammond was a respectable young lady, and she was shocked that she felt nothing as she stepped out the door. Nothing at all. A peculiar numbness seemed to have settled over her body, not calming her, but taking her out of the situation. The Christine Hammond who was not Christine Hammond guided her body down the streets, tied her long blonde hair uncomfortably behind her head, so that it pulled her face back, and walked along Westminster bridge, teetering uncomfortably in her high heels.

And so it happened, that she propositioned a Fingerman and was trapped there, against the wall, his friends slavering like a pack of wolves, licking their stubbly chops.

Now we have the picture painted, and the viewer has read the little square of information posted next to it. Allow us to begin.

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Christine Hammond knew she must be going mad. She could hear music. She was pressed against a wall, a man with quickened sex pressed against her like a terrible nightmare, and she was sure that she could hear Dixieland jazz. Once, perhaps, or twice before, she had heard that music. The melancholy, joyful noise of Dixie. She must be going mad. But the music would not stop. Where was it playing? Why? Her father had loved that music so. It was because of him that she had managed to sneak occasional listens to its mournful laments that made her happy to be sad. It made her think of honey lemon tea, and walks in the park, and Little Lotte.

But what Little Lotte loved best, was when she slept, and the Angel of Music sang to her.

And then Christine knew she was mad, because she saw the Angel of Music. He was like a child's dream, a smiling face that never showed disapproval, only pride. He was imposing, all in black, and taller than anyone she had ever seen. His cloak whipped about him like wings. She sighed deeply, and waited for a voice to sound informing her that her wits had gone.

"Doubtful it stood," said the voice, and the world fell away. It was only her, little Christine Hammond, in her green green dress and teetering heels, and the steamroller nightmare men, with their stubble and nightsticks, and the voice of the Angel of Music. The music changed. Dixie was over. She heard the overture, recognized it. Faust.

"As two spent swimmers, that do cling together, and choke their art," said the voice, and reached out one black clad had. "The merciless Macdonwald--worthy to be a rebel -" and the black clad hand grabbed one man by the neck, and threw him away. It was the Angel of Music, and an Angel of Music needs no flaming sword. For an instant there was scuffling, and Christine lost the voice's sound in the crowd. Frantic to hear it again, she struck out wildly - and struck down the last man.

She looked on the face of the angel, and the angel spake unto her, and she knelt before his majesty.

"And fortune, on his damned quarrel smiling, show'd like a rebel's whore: but all's too weak," intoned the voice, and laid one hand on her terrified head. "For brave Macbeth--well he deserves that name--disdaining fortune, with his brandish'd steel, which smoked with bloody execution," continued the voice. Christine looked at him through lashes coated with mascara, and he helped her slowly up. Then her feet were on a ladder, and she was on the roof of a building. A pang of terror swept through her - this behavior was inexcusable to the government! But then she heard the voice, and fear left her utterly.

"Like valour's minion carved out his passage," said the voice, and Christine turned to gaze at him.

"Till he faced the slave; which ne'er shook hands, nor bade farewell to him, till he unseam'd him from the nave to the chaps, and fix'd his head upon our battlements."

"Wh - wh -" Christine stammered finally, getting her breath, "wh -"

"Why have a helped you, child?"

She nodded once, blue eyes bursting like with hope.

"Don't you know what day it is? My, what do they teach them in schools these days. . ."

Christine felt her cheeks color. Oh, she was ashamed. Here before her was the Angel, and she was ignorant. A slave, which ne'er shook hands nor bade farewell to him. . .

"Remember, remember, the fifth of November."

She felt goosebumps rise, told herself it was the Angel, or perhaps she was mad, either way, she was safe, look at the sky. . .look at the stars. . .

"The gunpowder treason and plot."

There were stars now, now that there was a curfew for lights. You could see the stars. . .

"I see no reason gunpowder and treason -"

Or had the stars that were London been better? More beautiful to look at, a spread of neon, purple, blue, and yellow, but mostly the white light that means you're almost home after a long day. . .

"Should ever be forgot."

BOOM. The Houses of Parliament went up in a spray of orange fire. It almost looked like orange soda, tossed in the air, the carbonation bright and exploding over and over. An arch of bright red scarred the night time sky. For the first time, Christine Hammond looked upon the vengeance of the Lord, and she knelt, and shielded her blue eyes.

"You can't do that," said Christine, her police state instincts kicking in.

He looked at her through the harlequin mask, and said simply, "I did."

And there was nothing to say, until a rocket rent the sky, and exploded into a fountain of blue fire. Christine jumped to her feet with a child's cry of joy, and watched the sparks fall. They were followed by silver, red, blue, white, aquamarine, colors she had no name for. She was awed, and she spun on the roof like a child, dizzy and happy, intoxicated with the beauty before her. Below, she could hear London awake and rediscover their childhoods too. She felt perfect and whole.

Finally, she tumbled, breathless, onto the roof, the world spinning around her, and gasped to the smiling mask, "Who are you?"

"I do not have a name. You can call me Octave."


End file.
